


Inside Out

by daroos



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bodyswap, Cohabitation, Gen, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroos/pseuds/daroos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor McCoy gets psychically stored in Spock for a few weeks. It's questionable whether they will both survive the experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to StlGeekGirl for beta'ing.

Dr. McCoy woke with a start and a very undignified flail. Two nurses were immediately standing over him, restraining an arm each and speaking much too loudly - nearly shouting - asking him to calm down. He tried to shake one off and stand, but she flew across the medbay and collided with a wall, startling him to stillness.

"Hey!" An earsplitting cry drew his attention. "Calm the fuck down." It was an order which he felt compelled to obey, immediately going lax. Cold iron pulled his thoughts into something between a calm and a stupor. Jim was standing over him, a hand on his shoulder in reassurance more than restraint.

"Jim," McCoy managed.

Jim smiled down at him, worried but with a sparkle in his eye. "Good to see you awake." He patted the shoulder once more, blocking his view of the nurse who looked as though she might have a broken arm. "I need you to stay calm - can you do that for me?"

~Remain calm, doctor.~

McCoy flinched. "Where is that Vulcan?"

Jim's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

~There was no other way.~

\--

The improbably named Legubrians were highly apologetic.

"We did not intend to cause distress on anyone's part. Our people often undergo the process if a life-threatening injury is sustained," the main ambassador's aid said.

"How exactly did my CMO sustain life-threatening injuries to begin with? I thought you were taking them on a tour of the botanicals wing," Kirk gritted out, holding firmly to a calm he did not feel he should be in possession of any longer.

"Yes, well." The aid deferred to his superior with a great deal of bowing and doffing of his bowling-pin shaped hat.

The Legubrians were known collectors in the sector. If it came in sets, or types, or any classifiable grouping they would collect it. Plants, animals, minerals and rocks, rare gasses, asteroids of unique shape or composition, art from nearly any planet or motif, dolls, toys, and it goes without saying, technology both up to the date and ancient. There was even a wing in the palace devoted to nesting dolls from thirty eight sectors in the style of the locals of each planet in each sector.

"We have found that growing live specimens affords the most useful information about each species, as well as providing an aesthetically pleasing environment in which to pass time in reflection or relaxation," the senior ambassador said, as though that should explain everything.

"And?" Kirk asked, more than a little perturbed.

"The plant specimens are defined by a structure formed predominantly of cellulose reinforced cell walls, energy harvesting from electron displacement and lacking in any substantial motile functionality. This does not preclude a certain level of sentience."

"Did McCoy piss off a plant?" Kirk asked.

"Quite to the contrary. It appears that the human physiology has an unusually high resonance with a species known by catalogue number 243-62-095-0593-L38. In attempting to make contact I believe the species inadvertently bludgeoned the Doctor simultaneous to causing a severe psychic shock. We were very fortunate to get a brain-print off of the Doctor at all, and given the relatively short period in which a brain-print can be maintained without a host, Scientist Spock was gracious enough to lend his own hybrid physiology to the Doctor's very desperate needs. We would have taken on the burden ourselves, of course, but I fear our two species do not share enough for such a compatibility to be feasible. I'm sure you understand."

"A friendly plant jellied Doctor McCoy's brains so you stuck him in my First officer for safe keeping."

"Precisely."

Kirk turned to Sulu who he'd asked to join the interview with the Ambassadors so Kirk wouldn't do anything too undignified. Having kids around to impress had that effect on him. "This is INSANE," he hissed.

Sulu nodded, mute.

"I'm given to understand the Doctor can be returned to his... appropriate location?"

"Quite easily, yes."

"Then please do so."

"Well..." The ambassador took a chance to look chagrined, allowing his aide to step in.

"Doctor McCoy's body is recovering but it will likely be several weeks before the tissue has sufficiently recovered to receive his consciousness once more. If it would be preferable we have means to store the patterns in a neural loop on our computing core - it would tie up a substantial quantity of the planet's computing power but given the -"  
\--  
"Hell no am I allowing them to store my brain on some fool's extra terabytes for a few weeks while they glue my grey matter back together. What's wrong with you, Jim?"

To say McCoy was perturbed would be an understatement.

"They said it's perfectly safe," Kirk replied lamely.

~You would not find yourself in the uncomfortable position of inhabiting another's body.~

"Shut up, you," McCoy muttered under his breath, causing Kirk to raise an eyebrow. "I was talking to Spock."

"Bones?" Kirk asked balefully. "I kinda want to freak out right now."

McCoy sighed, "Get in line." He looked down at hands that were too large and smooth-skinned and sighed once more.

"So how is this going to work? Is Spock... in there with you?"

~I am here, Captain~

"Yeah," McCoy said sourly.  
~~  
McCoy and Spock got into a brief, half-verbalized fight in the corridor junction which split the route between McCoy and Spock’s quarters, which ended with McCoy _in_ Spock’s quarters. McCoy had never paid attention to the first officer’s quarters, as prior visits had been in times of medical emergency. He found them surprisingly aesthetically pleasing, though he never would admit that aloud. Spock had, logically, argued that his quarters more efficiently fulfilled the needs of his own body, and thus would be the logical place to reside during their cohabitation.

~Now would be an appropriate time to discuss mutually acceptable terms.~

When McCoy closed his eyes it was though he fell through a dark, soft silence landing once more in himself. Opening his eyes, he found himself in an airy room with sandstone walls and precise arches. A 3D chess game was in progress by a chaise lounge and several small geometric puzzles were scattered across what was likely a dining table. Spock stood looking out an arched window onto a rocky desert landscape, hands clasped behind his back.

"I thought it would be best if we could speak face to face, as it were." Spock said without turning.

"Where are we?" McCoy asked, gaze wandering over the abstract decor.

"This is my father's home on Vulcan. It is... a meditative exercise - it exists only within my mind."

Spock stepped back from the window and sat on a bench by the window, ankles crossed in the closest McCoy had ever to seen him relaxed. The window, he now saw, looked out on the world which McCoy had just left, while the rest showed a barren, rocky landscape.

"My attempts to influence my own actions without interfering with the integrity of your mental bursa have thus far been unsuccessful. You are the ascendent personality." Spock steepled his fingers in a thoughtful gesture while McCoy fidgeted on what might have been the most uncomfortable couch he had ever dealt with.

"I hope you're not suggesting I should let them put me in their computer core."

"Given the Legubrians' admittedly lackadaisical understanding of the technology they employ and collect, I understand your hesitancy in that regard. Quite the contrary, I am merely suggesting that we discuss 'ground rules', as the Captain would put it. We are to be roommates, though in a more personal sense than one is typically accustomed. Mutual respect of boundaries will be paramount in the success of our cohabitation."

"I think this was an old Earth sitcom," McCoy grumbled.

Spock merely raised an eyebrow and continued, "I believe that when you are resting I will be able to maintain control of my person thereby allowing us to coexist in the internal and external worlds. Given the standard 8 hours of rest necessary for humans to maintain adequate cognitive function, this should be sufficient to maintain my current experiments as well as remain up to date in my duties as first officer."

"Now wait just a minute. You seem to be forgetting the necessity of rest, regardless of the species. If you're working when we should be sleeping it's only a matter of time before your body starts breaking down. Humans can last six or seven days without sleep before dementia sets in - how long can Vulcans manage?"

"Vulcans have been known to maintain meditative trances for up to 922 hours at a time without the need for rest. Given that I am only half Vulcan, it seems likely that the period would be shorter. Regardless, we are both needed in functional capacities not practical during meditation. Your point is well put." Spock took a deep breath. "If you would discuss with the Captain the possibility of sharing some of my more easily delegatable tasks amongst the senior staff, I would be appreciative. Vulcans require a minimum of three hours of sleep and several hours of meditation to maintain mental and physical equilibrium. I would also advise you to avoid skin to skin contact, given our species touch telepathy. Your lack of shielding would likely make things... uncomfortable."

"You don't want me to use my hands? I'm a doctor, man - they're my best tools."

"On the contrary - I suggest you don't use MY hands. The results would be unpleasant if you neglect to wear gloves."

McCoy grumbled. "Anything else I should be aware of?"

"More things than I can enumerate now. We will have to do so 'on the fly'. I believe you are needed."

Kirk could be seen through the window, waving a hand in front of it. The Captain had apparently taken it upon himself to track down the pair of them in Spock’s quarters. McCoy snapped back into consciousness. "What?" he asked irritably.

"What? I was worried! I was about to call on the emergency frequency to get one of their doctors over here, that's what. You were completely gone."

"I was talking with Spock," McCoy said gruffly. Kirk raised an eyebrow. "In here." McCoy tapped his-but-not-his head.

"So he's conscious in there?" Kirk waved as though trying to wave to someone through a one-way mirror.

~That is quite unnecessary~

"What I see, he sees." Kirk stopped waving. "Put that away, would you." McCoy batted the offending hand back to Kirk's side. With the contact came a brief, bright flash of emotions - concern and confusion and anger all rolled into a squirming spit wad shot right into a place in his spine. McCoy flinched.

~Please refrain from such actions.~ Spock sounded as though he were gritting his teeth.  
~~  
_Memo to Senior Staff:_  
Due to an unexpected accident and cultural misunderstanding, Doctor McCoy's consciousness has been placed with Mr. Spock for safe keeping until Doctor McCoy's body has healed. Until further notice, please take note of Mr. Spock's collar pips to determine if you are addressing. Mr. Spock or Doctor McCoy. If you have any questions, please see Doctor McCoy.  
~~  
After a single day of half duty in the sickbay both of their nerves were frazzled. Each accidental contact was like touching a hot stove - some worse when the patient was in pain or distressed. McCoy really wanted to punch something but more pain would be his only reward. "I'll try to do better tomorrow," he grumbled, annoyed and emotionally distraught.

~Your efforts will be insufficient,~ Spock replied evenly.

The doctor bristled. "Now look here you-"

~I meant no offense,~ Spock broke in. ~It is merely factual that no amount of effort on your part will overnight break you of many decades of habit. Alternate safeguards must be put in place.~

McCoy sensed Spock's bafflement at his own bridling reaction at the comment, and so backed down. "What would you suggest?" he replied testily.

~There is a pair of gloves in the third drawer of my dresser. They will provide some guard against unexpected contact,~ he said it without emotion, but McCoy sensed an undercurrent of some sort.

The drawer was deep and McCoy had to dig somewhat to find the gloves. At the top was a headscarf of a vibrant blue-green, nestled around a tea set made, most likely, of some now-extinct Vulcan animal's egg shells, long ago vacated. Below that was a tile twice the size of his palm painted in glaze with what he recognized as a likeness of Spock's mother, and a stardate from twenty-five years ago. The gloves were below that beside a packet of real paper letters on thick linen paper, tied with a silk ribbon. Feeling as though he had invaded a sanctum more private than the Commander's mind, McCoy put the items back just as he had found them.

McCoy tried them on. "These are quality," he commented, taking his mind from the drawer.

~Ltnt. Uhura gifted them to me on the occasion of our one year anniversary. She said it was an Earth custom, but as I had little occasion or necessity to wear them they have gone largely unused.~

McCoy rubbed his hands together. Spock's hands. They were slate grey, very acceptable to Vulcan sensibilities, with a triangle motif at the wrist. They were fine enough he could type or use medical instruments when necessary without them interfering. ~Is this a satisfactory preliminary solution?~ Spock stated more than asked. McCoy nodded mutely for once. Spock set about leading through meditative exercises designed to restore equilibrium to their frazzled neural pathways.  
~~  
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Kirk asked, slowing his steps through the hospital halls.

"I have to be sure the Legubrian standard of care is up to par. I shoulda done this a few days ago but I just—” McCoy shook his head. “If they can't take us on a tour of the damned greenhouse without screwing it up I really don't want to leave them to their own devices regrowing my grey matter."

Kirk shrugged. The nurse leading them either wasn't listening or didn't care. "You have a southern accent."

"Yeah - what's new?" McCoy grumbled.

"It's just really disconcerting to see Spock and hear you."

They stopped at a room and the nurse swiped them in. McCoy's body was suspended in a tank of viscous liquid, twitching infrequently. McCoy went to his own head, tricorder already out. Kirk moved to join him but turned grey and had to rush to the sink to vomit. "You alright Jim?" McCoy asked, most of his attention on his body. An inhuman calm detachment clamped protectively over his thoughts - Spocks doing he could only surmise.

"Holy crap that is gruesome."

"Yeah. I'd be very dead if not for their quick medical intervention. And I'd probably be a permanent vegetable if not for this brain print thing." Jim gave him a weird look, wincing as he examined the body - it was hard to believe it wasn't a corpse - carefully.

The entire left side of the head had been crushed in. The occipital lobe and nose had been shattered along with the cheekbone and jaw. His ear had been ripped off along with a significant amount of skin. The clavicle and scapula had been broken on one side and was being held in place with a metal scaffold. What wasn't obviously broken was a deep, unhealthy red of pooling oedema and tissue damage. The useless pudding of skull bone and brain had been removed and the scraps of still intact scalp were tagged together with a second, finer scaffold holding in a pinkish coagulating jelly which also held his nose and a cybernetic eye in place. His original had been popped like a cherry tomato with the force of the blow.

"Bones: how are you not freaking out." It was mostly a statement - confusion and misplaced anger.

McCoy continued to take readings, the cage holding him safe from getting washed away in his own emotional state stiffening noticeably. McCoy bit his lip, snapping the tricorder shut with more force than necessary. "I have everything I need." He turned on his heel and hastily retreated from the room.

In the hall he sagged his back against the cold stone wall, shaking.

~That was quite unnecessary, Doctor~ Spock admonished, easing the iron grip on McCoy’s emotions, which he felt was the only thing holding him grounded.

"God DAMN IT." McCoy rose and hurled the tricorder down the hallway It bounced itself into pieces as it ricocheted off the walls and floor. Kirk kept his distance.

~If you allow yourself to indulge in such emotional outbursts you will damage us,~ Spock reminded quietly, almost gently.

"Burn out your green blooded brain, eh?"

~Something like that,~ Spock replied.

"Are you joking with me? Did you just make a joke?"

Wry silence met McCoy's enquiry, and Kirk worked up the courage to approach.

"Geeze, Bones, you couldn't just take their word that they had things under control?" Kirk began collecting the pieces of tricorder from the hallway as McCoy watched, running shaking fingers through hair that wouldn't muss properly. "Come on Bones, lets get you guys home." Kirk wedged himself under the larger Vulcan frame and they made their way back to the shuttle. Kirk had enough practice draggin semi-competent servicemen home that he even made it look like McCoy and Spock were largely under their own power.  
\--  
"Did you redecorate?" McCoy asked, glancing around Spock's quarters. The room was softly colorful with bright accents of traditional Vulcan art.

~No~ Spock replied.

"It looks brighter somehow."

~The color spectrum of the lights is designed to best mimic the light of Vulcan's star. Human's visual range emphasizes different spectrums than those of Vulcans who evolved to find food sources in the most barren environments. I have often commented on Human's preference for garish furnishings.~

"Yeah, but I thought it was because you were a drab, artless race of fuddy duddys. Not because the way you perceive color we look like a gilded reproduction of a Moroccan Bazaar."

Spock was offended. ~Vulcans are far from artless. Just because Humans are ill equipped to understand the complex beauty found in euclidean representations of fractal-~

"Yeah, yeah. I didn't mean anything by it."

For the first time, Spock was intimately aware that Bones really didn't mean anything by it. Whereas before he was accustomed to dismiss apology as hyperbole much as he would dismiss the wild claims Ltnt Checkov would make about Russia as hyperbole, it was quite impossible, inhabiting the same space and mind, to deny McCoy's, admittedly gruff, sincerity. Genuinely curious, ~If you didn't 'mean anything by it' then why did you imply that Vulcans are lacking in aesthetic understanding and appreciation?~

McCoy sat in one of the Vulcan chairs which looked like it should be the most uncomfortable chair in the world but was actually quite supportive and minimalistically forgiving, and entered the mental space which was the only place he and Spock could interact face to face.

"Do you really not understand this?" he asked, looking at a confused Spock.

"I have asked for clarification."

McCoy rubbed his face in a gesture of frustration. "Humans often have difficulty expressing their affection in traditional ways."

"I have noticed."

They were silent for a long moment. "I like you, Spock. Or I want to - I just don't understand you."

"Is that necessary to carry on a professional relationship?"

Bones threw up his hands. "See, that's what I'm talking about - we're on a year long mission for christ's sake. If all I had was professional relationships I'd go batshit. I'm talking about friendship, man, or isn't that allowed on Vulcan?"

Spock's mood darkened nearly instantly, as it seemed to have the habit of doing whenever his former home was mentioned. The light in the desert outside decreased to a melodramatic twilight. "Professional respect is the most a Vulcan would expect from anyone but family."

Bones' eyes bulged. "Are you kidding me?"

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "Humans so often find it necessary to become 'friends' with those they dislike or despise for the purpose of professional advancement or financial gain. Friendship is an ephemeral quality so easily feigned that it is next to useless as a gauge of one's regard for another. The fickle nature of humans for the large part precludes the long-standing professional relationships on which the science and arts of Vulcan were built."

"Maybe you've just never had a real friend." McCoy needled.

Far from rising to the bait as he might have expected, Spock simply tilted his head as though considering. "Perhaps," he said finally, apparently nonplussed by the idea. The turbulent night outside disillusioned McCoy of Spock's calm.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"A blind man can not miss seeing - he can merely note his absence of sight."

"And you say I'm circuitous."

They were both silent. "I respect your work, doctor, though your methodology often eludes me." McCoy nodded, smiling ruefully. "If you wish us to be friends, I would not be averse to that status. However.” He paused, and a muscle in his lip twitched. “If that is your desire, would you do me the favor of speaking directly and in traditional modes? I am afraid the subtleties of human interactions often elude me and I do not wish to misconstrue your comments."

"I'll give it my best," McCoy offered. They were silent. "You know, I know you probably have to keep it under wraps, but you go a bit of a sense of humor on you."

"Humor, doctor?"

"Yeah, you know - jokes, funny, that sort of thing." McCoy gesticulated.

Spock merely quirked an eyebrow, turning down his gaze.

"You've got to know what a sense of humor is." He began trying to explain it once more but stopped. He shook his finger at Spock. "You're having me on again."

"I assure you, I am having you in no direction whatsoever."

"You're one sly bastard, aren't you?"

"My parents were married at the time of my birth."  
\--  
"We must allow my body to rest. Remaining in this mental space is the best way to do so."

McCoy had grown restless in the mental house which they both existed within during meditation.

"You mean being stuck here in this Vulcan oven for four hours a day?"

"Yes,” Spock replied, stonily. "If you wish to fabricate another environ in which to spend your time you may attempt to do so. I would suggest creating a place with which you are intimately familiar."

Spock did not expect the doctor to do anything towards fabricating anything - in his experience humans were simply not capable of the focus and attention to detail necessary for the deepest mental exercises - but he also didn't ask the doctor where he went for the several hours they were required by physical demands, to spend together. His surprise was therefore even greater for the lack of build up, when the doctor disappeared completely from Spock's facsimile of Sarek's house. The window to the outside world remained dark, indicating the sleep/meditation which sustained them, but the doctor was nowhere to be found.

"Doctor McCoy?" Spock called, becoming concerned that he had somehow fallen into a mental crevasse from which he would never be recovered.

"In here," he heard from inside the food storage cupboard. "I think I've gotten the hang of this."

Spock opened the food cupboard and stopped dead. Instead of food which would not satisfy him and stasis shelves, the cupboard now opened onto a grassy plane completely at odds with the surrounding Vulcan landscape visible from the windows. Long, thick grass spread in hillocks all the way to a blue-green creek overhung with willow trees. McCoy was seated on a wooden reclining chair by the water, feet propped on a tree root.

"Truly impressive," Spock commented, more to himself than the doctor.

"You think?"

"I do. The Vulcan synaptic patterns in which you are being stored must reinforce your mental focus to allow such a complete environment."

"It's not possible that good old Human brainpower was stronger than you expected?"

"It is not."

"You spend a lot of time telling us how weak humans are for being half human yourself."

"It is a fact I am all too aware of," Spock replied with a slight twist of the mouth which might have been a rueful smile on a human.

Bones sat silently in his chair, watching algae laden water meander by. It had never occurred to him that every reminder of human frailty Spock put forward was a reminder of his own failings and faults. That perhaps every dig at humanity was a schadenfreude dig at himself. "Why don't you come enjoy the shade and the outdoors." McCoy finally suggested.

"This is all in my head - enjoying outdoors which are merely a construct of your mind would be as productive as consuming the comestibles in the stasis cabinet."

"That stuff is pretty awful. Haven't you Vulcans ever heard of flavor?"

"Our food supplies our nutritional needs and it is quite satisfying to the Vulcan palate. You may have noticed that the food you are eating using my taste buds does not lack in flavor or satiety."  
\--  
"It's him, and it's not him, and I don't have anyone to talk about it with because they're both him!" Kirk complained, more than a few drinks into a flask of Scotty's worst distillation experiment yet.

Uhura looked unsympathetically at her captain. "Have you tried talking to either of them? Or both of them together?"

"That's like a conversational threesome. I lose enough arguments with each of them independently -- I’m not getting into that."  
~~  
Kirk stared at the Starfleet insignia on his viewscreen waiting patiently for his call to go through. "Kirk." He startled out of his reverie.

"Admiral Tzeto." He straightened his uniform shirt.

"I got your most recent report yesterday and it seemed best to ask my questions face to face." Kirk nodded. "How could you let this happen?" Tzeto looked... displeased.

Kirk put on his blandest, blankest expression - the one he had been practicing in the bathroom mirror in emulation of his XO - preparing himself for a chewing out. "I'm sure by now you are familiar with the dangers inherent in diplomatic contact with a poorly studied species. The likelihood of cultural misunderstanding is high."

"Cultural misunderstanding is one thing - the Enterprise crew is doomed to leave a wake of diplomatic incidents, statistically improbable accidents and minor celestial disasters behind her nacelles. Your CMO managed to provoke a PLANT."

"Doctor McCoy managed to incite the plant's interest, which it displayed by... bludgeoning him."

Tzeto didn't have any reply for that. "Nobody died. The diplomatic relations have been established and we've gained permission for a permanent Federation Ambassadorial residence."

"Losing your CMO and XO in one fell swoop."

"They're both on half duty," Kirk replied.

"Which prompts the question - what happened to your XO?"

Jim Kirk was not unfamiliar to lying but if he could, he much preferred to avoid it, especially to senior officers. He decided to take the middle route between the truth and outright lies. "Commander Spock is using his telepathic training to help maintain Doctor McCoy's... neural stability while he heals. This is sufficiently draining on the Commander that I have cut him to half duty."

"Spock's 'telepathic training'," Tzeto repeated, deadpan. Starfleet, for as much as Vulcans were founding members of the Federation, didn't like to admit the existence of telepaths, let alone that they were useful above and beyond the scope of a normal crew member.

"Yes Sir," Kirk agreed, deadpan.

"How much longer will this be going on?" Tzeto asked.

"Only ten or twelve more days, sir."

Tzeto's eyes narrowed, "Very well. See that your crew doesn't pick any more fights with the flora. Now about Mr. Scott's warp drive modifications..."  
\--  
Vulcans were strong. McCoy had become intimately aware of this while trying to restrain Spock who had been adversely affected by energy fields surrounding a nebula, and entered a wild psychotic state. Being on the other side of that almost ridiculously strong frame and well cared for muscle was quite another matter. The measured way in which he moved suddenly made sense.

If he wasn't careful, the mess hall sporks would be bent into a spork donut. ~It is a toroid,~ Spock commented, ~and this is likely an outward expression of inner emotional turmoil.~

"Something with which you have no experience," McCoy muttered to himself.

~Quite to the contrary,~ Spock commented, dropping the subject in an uncharacteristic show of tact.

McCoy re-bent the spork into a serviceable form and continued eating the pudding like grain soup which was the only thing on offer from the mess that was 'acceptable to the Vulcan palate'. McCoy had once gone against Spock's advice regarding such matters and had regretted it (they both had) for days. "I didn't mean anything by that," he finally said.

~As you said, you do not understand me. Not having emotions, and not expressing them or allowing them to rule you are very different. I believe this difference is what leads to much misunderstanding amongst us. 'Though a river run wide or deep, it carries the same flow'.~ The last part had the sound of a quote.

"Who said that?" McCoy asked.

~A 23rd century earth philosopher. There is a nearly identical saying on Vulcan, revolving around laminar flow in canyons, a subject which we are more intimately familiar than that of flowing water.~

"I never got to see Vulcan."

There seemed nothing to say after that on either of their parts, so McCoy finished eating and went back to the Med bay.

"Has the Commander gotten even stranger lately?" Sulu asked Chekov.

"I have noticed he talks to himself more frequently, and seems easily distracted."

"Talks to himself?"

"Yes! As though having one part of a conversation with himself," Chekov replied enthusiastically.

"Don't you idiots read memos?" Uhura asked, sitting down at her mess tray. "Doctor McCoy's consciousness got put in with Spock until his body regenerated from SEVERE BRAIN DAMAGE. They're probably talking to each other."

"That would explain why he shouted, 'For God's sakes man', when I asked him about the science team working on a rewire of the steering controls and then ran off."

"That was very unusual."

"How do you boys remember to breathe?"  
\--  
In all, McCoy and Spock ‘cohabitated’ for a total of 22 days. McCoy got the hang of meditation. Spock tried, and liked, grits. McCoy convinced Chekov that he was actually Spock a grand total of six times, which Spock voiced his disapproval of, but which McCoy secretly know he enjoyed just a bit. They had a number of discussions about Nurse Chapel which culminated in Spock, while impersonating Dr. McCoy housed within Spock’s body, professing his (McCoy’s) feeling to the Nurse in a stilted, overly-logical manner. McCoy learned some key points of Vulcan physiology which he would have preferred to not know so... intimately.

And though the experience was undoubtedly one which both of them would have preferred to avoid on principle, it was not... negative. McCoy was hard-pressed to explain how he _didn’t_ find the experience beyond objectionable. Though it was stressful, the nearby emotional support of the cool lake of Vulcan calm steadied his most violent highs and crushing lows, and the taste of human emotion seemed to give Spock new verve.

On the day that the Legubrians contacted them to say McCoy’s body was as healed as it needed to be, though they would not have admitted it, both men anticipated missing the company.

Bones stared down at a body which, even from a few short (very long) weeks, seemed alien to him. The eyes were thankfully closed, otherwise he might not have been able to face himself. He felt a cool hand on his back which he had come to know was Spock's presence, oil spreading over the turbulent water of his emotions. "The system can perform the transfer on its own but we have found it is less unpleasant if there is contact between the host and recipient."

Bones removed the gloves he had taken to wearing and allowed Spock to guide his hand to his temple, the other hand moving to join it on the other side. A tingle of apprehension ran over his fingertips, but whether it was purely psychosomatic or rooted in a physical or psychic phenomenon was impossible to tell.

~Breathe, Doctor,~ Spock reminded him. Bones let out a final breath and dropped his head to bump his own forehead like a Buddhist monk, closing his eyes as he did so.

Even the less unpleasant version of the transfer was unpleasant enough. A burning pain through his sinuses preceded a profound feeling of directionless disconnect. He opened his eyes and for a moment, saw double, mirroring back on himself infinitely until something snapped and he was staring up at Spock, much closer than he had ever imagined he would be to the Vulcan, unless perhaps they were locked in a life-or-death battle.

"Commander," he said, wincing as the cybernetic eye initiated and began transmitting, giving him depth perception once more.

"Doctor," Spock replied, peeling his fingertips from Bones' temples with what might have been constrained regret. "You will now be subjected to gross motor testing to assure a successful transfer."

"I'll tell their doctors where they can shove their tests," Bones growled.

"Doctor." Spock rested a hand on his chest in admonishment and restraint. "You are being difficult." Bones wasn't positive, but he thought he could identify a twinkle of amusement about the Commander.  
\--

Epilogue:

Spock sat at the edge of a sluggish stream amongst wispy falls of weeping willow branches, in a rough-cut Adirondack chair. The design was surprisingly relaxing. Birds chirped softly and played amongst the branches above him, and the scent of heavy atmospheric moisture and the clamoring, boisterous, _alive_ scent of growing green things seemed almost to stick in his hair. Spock breathed deeply, and idly played a mathematics game involving each joint and bone of his fingers.

The chime of his quarters interrupted his relaxation. Spock sighed and stood, walked through the portal in his food stasis unit, and left his mental landscape via one of the large, darkened windows.

“Enter,” he instructed. The door opened and McCoy stood, his shoulders slumped and his head cocked to the side. “Can I help you, Doctor?”

“It’s two hours after dinner service and I just got off shift,” McCoy groused. Spock remained silent, as that statement required no response on his part. “C’mon. Join me for a bit.”

Spock now understood the affection which underlay the doctor’s gruff tone. This represented both invitation and request; likely McCoy had had a taxing evening in medical and wished to unburden himself in some manner over dinner. “I am inappropriately attired,” he responded and moved to retrieve his uniform and change.

McCoy stepped into his quarters uninvited, but the movement allowed the door to close which gave Spock appropriate privacy with which to change. The doctor looked around the room, sniffed, and smirked. “You kept my decor,” McCoy commented.

Spock stepped into his trousers, glanced about his quarters, and cocked his head. “You made no changes to my quarters.”

McCoy tapped the side of his head. “Up here. I can practically smell the Georgia afternoon on you.” An unexpected side effect of the neural transfer was some residual psychic tendencies on both their parts with regards to the other.

Spock tipped his head in acknowledgement and clasped his hands behind his back. “Indeed, I have found some variety in my meditation practice to bring a renewed focus in times of stagnation.”

McCoy smirked. “Ya don’t say?”


End file.
